


Cologne

by blueinkedbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek REALLY doesn't like that, Derek doesn't like it, M/M, Stiles has a date with Lydia Martin, Stiles is oblivious, Stiles is wearing cologne, until he isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:32:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueinkedbones/pseuds/blueinkedbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn't collect Stiles' breath in his lungs, doesn't drink it down and run his tongue over his teeth. He pulls back, pulls away, calms down. Tries to calm down. "Big date tonight?" he asks, like his wolf isn't howling and clawing at his insides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cologne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alocalband](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alocalband/gifts).



Cologne is the cruelest trick Stiles has ever played on Derek, his scent covered in— _not his scent_. He smells _wrong_. Derek doesn't like Stiles smelling like wood and wine and _wrong_ and tasting sharp and sour and _wrong_. Derek wants _Stiles_ , only Stiles, wants a trail he can track at all times. He can feel the younger man's breath stutter a mile away, can hear his heartbeat quicken across a football field, can inhale and follow his scent like a compass pointing home. But this is all wrong. This is worse than the days Stiles carries the sick-sweet smell of Lydia Martin and lust.

Something stronger than panic powers through Derek until he's got Stiles' shoulders under his palms.

He paws at him, reckless but careful, pushes him backwards and catches him before he hits the wall. Stiles gasps, stares, mouth open like an invitation. Derek inhales lightly, tasting Stiles and _wrong_ in the air, and growls low in his throat.

"Dude, what—" Stiles says, and every exhale dilutes the _wrong_ , brings the air back as it should be—

_Derek doesn't collect Stiles' breath in his lungs, doesn't drink it down and run his tongue over his teeth—_

He pulls back, pulls away, calms down.

Tries to calm down.

"Big date tonight?" he asks, like his wolf isn't howling and clawing at his insides.

"Wha—uh, I guess." Stiles trades his loose-lipped gape for a crooked grin. "Yeah. Lydia freakin' Martin, man. Me and Lydia. Lydia and I." His mouth shapes into a hunter's crossbow, a deep Bowie curve. "Holy shit. This is real."

Derek's wolf is murderous. His face is carefully neutral. "Easy on the cologne," he says, and claps a palm over Stiles shoulder, leans forward—

_He doesn't trace the line of Stiles' wide smile with his thumb, doesn't skim his lips over the thin bristle of barely-visible blonde hairs on Stiles' chin—_

—retracts, light-headed and growling.

"They don't test it on animals or anything," Stiles offers immediately. "They just mix stuff up in bottles and slap on exorbitant price tags. Is it too much? Oh god, it's too much, isn't it."

"You smell like smoke," Derek says without thinking, and the smile slides from Stiles face.

"Huh? I—No, I—Dude, I didn't—It's not—" he sputters, eyes searching Derek's face—

_for what?_

—and catching on his bruised red mouth, and holding steady, and then flickering back to Derek's eye line. "I've been waiting pretty much my whole life for this, okay? And all the, you know, the guys with, like, _swagger_ , they do the whole white shirt, shave, cologne routine, y'know? And I'm not gonna waste my time shaving—"

 _Derek doesn't score Stiles' jaw with his teeth, doesn't wrap his lips over the curve of his thr_ o _at, take the steady throbbing pulse under his tongue—_

"—Shaving what, exactly," Stiles continues, a self-deprecating smirk twitching in and out of place, "so I figured, y'know, I'd try the other two."

Derek shrugs, steps back. Stiles goes uncharacteristically quiet.

"Smoke," he says, his voice flat, stiff. "Still?"

Derek stares, huffs out a toneless laugh.

"Of course," Stiles stumbles over himself. "Stupid question. I'm an idiot, of course you're not— "

"You're going to be late," Derek interrupts.

"Right." Stiles doesn't move. "Date. I have a date with Lydia Martin. Love of my life."

He barely fidgets. They stand, eyes locked, waiting for nothing, but it feels like waiting.

"Well?" Derek demands, shoving his wolf down, weighting it with ashes and pretty blonde arsonists. "Why are you still here?"

"You're the one who found me, dude," Stiles says, standing completely still. He's slightly flushed, his skin pinker around his cheeks and neck, highlighting a constellation of dark dots Derek cannot, cannot trace with his fingertips or anything else. But he wants to. He wants to.

He keeps his expression bland—

He _hopes_ he keeps his expression bland—

"Sure," he says, after a fairly suspicious pause. He doesn't breathe; he sifts the air, separates Stiles from the smell of— "Smoke," he repeats, like he's brain-dead, on autopilot, and he glares at something over Stiles' shoulder.

"That's—" Stiles steps forward, eyes like flames. " _Derek_. That's not gonna happen again."

"You don't know that," Derek says, because he doesn't.

"It's not," Stiles insists. He's a kid. Seventeen. He doesn't _know_.

"Don't be stupid," Derek growls. "It happens."

"It _happened_ ," Stiles corrects. "It's over. The end. She's _gone_ , remember, with the whole Peter thing and the _tell me you're sorry_ and the red eyes and the _I'm the Alpha now_ —all that."

"There's plenty more where she came from," Derek says, and he never meant to talk about any of this. "You have someplace to be," he reminds Stiles.

"No way," Stiles insists. "You're not blowing me off."

"No, _you have somewhere to be_ ," Derek says slowly, understanding nothing. "Lydia Martin, the apex of perfection? The date you've been planning for nine years? Any of this ringing a bell?"

"Sounds vaguely familiar," Stiles deadpans. "But you're—"

"Not your problem," Derek says.

"—okay?" Stiles finishes, ignoring this. "Are you okay?"

It's like walking into an invisible wall. Derek stares, stares, stares, and nothing is any clearer.

"No. No, you're not," Stiles says, and Derek snaps back to life.

"I'm fine," he says. Stiles throws up his arms—

_Derek doesn't tip forward and press Stiles' steady humming pulse against his jaw, doesn't fall into the warm curve of his neck and shoulder, doesn't wrap himself up in unsteady arms, until the chemicals fade and Stiles smells more and more like himself, and shiver—_

—says, "I'm not _that_ dense, okay? Something's going on in that broody little head of yours, and _fine_ is not an accurate description."

He steps forward again, closing the gap between them, and lays a palm on Derek's shoulder. Derek looks at it, Stiles, Stiles' palm on his shoulder, a light, steady pressure. His wolf claws at his cage.

"You're shaking," Stiles says, and his palm tightens around the werewolf's shoulder. "Why are you shaking? Are you hurt? Are you dying again?" His eyes dart over Derek's form, searching for a wound.

"I'm fine," Derek says.

Stiles glares at him. "Don't you dare. Don't you freakin' dare, man. Tell me what's going on."

"There's nothing going on." Just another false alarm, Derek thinks, but his body won't take the hint, won't stop smelling smoke and thinking of fire and smoke and Stiles and _what if, what if_ —

Derek curls his hands into fists, steadies them against the thighs of his jeans, swallows the lump in his throat, fights to keep his wolf down.

"Dude, this is Beacon Hills. Something's always going on. Usually something full of death and destruction and screaming and bloodshed and me watching you almost die. And you're shaking. You don't generally shake. You're very steady. Almost stiff. Like a statue, y'know? A grumpy, growly, threaten-y statue. But you're shaking. Like—like something that shakes a lot. Like one of those massage pillow things with the _bzzzzzz_ and the—" He lifts his arm from Derek's shoulder and vibrates it energetically. "Without the _bzzzzzz_ part, obviously. So yeah, I figure something's going on. Must be Monday."

"Stiles!" Derek is done with… whatever this is. His shoulder is gathering cold air in the absence of Stiles' palm, and this is over, _now_. He needs to snap out of it. False alarm. It happens. It'll happen again. Can't go catatonic every time someone lights a cigarette within a five mile radius of something he cares about. "Nothing is going on. I'm _fine_. Go on your date."

"Sure. Yeah." Stiles' face shuts down. "Not like I'd be any help, anyway." The words are casual, but the edge of them brush the edge of bitterness. He turns, starts walking.

Derek closes his eyes, opens them.

"It's an aftershock," he informs the younger man's retreating back. "I smell smoke, I remember. That's it." Stiles doesn't need to know this. No one needs to know this.

He can't help. No one can help. It's over. Done. Everyone's gone now, even Kate. Even Peter. Again.

You know you've hit a new low when you start grieving for psychopaths.

Stiles stops.

Turns around.

"You're shaking," he repeats. There's something like understanding in his voice. "Like a panic attack."

Derek raises his eyebrows, lowers them. "I don't know. Maybe."

"You have panic attacks."

Derek growls. _Of course. This is gonna become the new running joke._

"But you know what sets them off," Stiles says. He's not laughing.

Derek nods. "Fire."

"So my stupid cologne smells like smoke, and you—" Stiles stops. "How'd you smell it?"

"What?"

"Where were you? Do you just, like, pick up and run every time you smell—" He stops again. "You came and found me."

"So?"

"Your trigger is smoke," Stiles says, an impossible expression on his face, "and my cologne smells like smoke to you, but you didn't run away from it. You came here and threw me against a wall."

"So?"

"So," Stiles echoes, like he's got the whole world figured out and he's just waiting for it to catch up. "Why?"

"Why what?" Derek asks, an uneasy thud of speeding-up heartbeat sounding in his ears.

"Oh my god! Are you kidding me? You're kidding me, right?" Stiles stares at Derek like he understands everything and nothing at once. "Me plus your trigger equals you running _to_ your trigger. Explain that. Actually, no, I think I've got it. But explain it anyway. Massage my fragile ego."

"What?" Derek says again, and Stiles throws up his arms in absolute frustration.

"Oh my god! Dude!" Stiles makes a face. Then another face. "You _care_ about me. You smell my _scent_ —" His nose twitches on _scent_. "And you smell smoke, and you get worried. You get—" He gestures vaguely in Derek's general direction. "—panic-y."

"I'm not—" Derek tries to glare. Fails. "It was a false alarm."

"You care about me," Stiles sing-songs, grinning, the most insufferable living thing Derek has ever known.

"Shut up."

"You need to know that I'm okay," Stiles goes on.

"I'm gonna kill you."

"You looooooooove me," Stiles smirks. Derek stops breathing. "Hey. Dude. _Dude_."

"Shut up," Derek says, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Holy shit. You _love_ me."

"I'm glad that's funny to you," Derek says. "Because it's totally hilarious to me." Only he can't push the words out with anything but sarcasm, and Stiles' smile slips again. "Go to your date, Stiles. Lydia's waiting. Why are you even still—?"

Stiles kisses him.

_Derek doesn't kiss back—_

He doesn't react. He keeps his wolf down, and he doesn't react. Stiles pulls away.

"Where did our signals get really, really freakin' crossed?" he asks the empty air on Derek's left. "Cuz for a second there, I actually thought—"

"What the hell was that?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Negative something. I think I hit my head on the wall when you slammed me into it, and now I have brain damage and can't be held responsible for anything I say or do. Oh my god."

"You _kissed_ me."

"Fine, you win. I'm an idiot, okay? Good. Now we're both on the same page."

"You're seventeen."

"I'm—so?" Stiles demands.

"You're human."

"And you're a bigoted, bigot-y werewolf full of bigotry if you think that matters. I'm ashamed of you."

"I'm a werewolf."

"Yes, yes you are. What's your point?"

"You're seventeen," Derek repeats. Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, and I'll be eighteen by the time this conversation is over."

"Lydia's waiting."

"I waited nine years. She can wait—"

" _Why_?" Derek demands, heart pounding in his ears. " _Why is she waiting?_ You've been lusting after Lydia for nine years. Why are you still _here_?"

"I don't know," Stiles says after a long pause. "I just—I don't wanna leave yet. I—You're impossible, okay, you have the communication skills of plankton, and not the talk-y kind on Sponge-Bob, actual plankton. You keep sending mixed signals—you save my life, you bite my head off, we have an actual conversation, you throw me against the steering wheel—"

"You know what that was for," Derek huffs. "Miguel? Really?"

"Fine. The next time you're hanging out in my room with blood all over your shirt, looking like a total lurking psycho killer, _you_ get to make the alibi."

"You had me _trying on your shirts_. I had to talk like I didn't know English—"

"Whoa, hold up. I never said Miguel wasn't born and raised in California, where English was his first language, and he majored in Linguistics and minored in Classic American Literature. You're the one who decided he was all _No speakeh English_. That's super xenophobic, dude."

"You knew your clothes wouldn't fit."

"But on the bright side, you saw how blue makes those eyes just pop! You should wear more color, bro. Like once a week, one non-black, non-leather thing. We'll just wean you off slowly. Small steps."

"Bro," Derek repeats.

"Bro," Stiles agrees.

"You say _bro_ unironically."

"And you're a secret hipster. Oh my god, do you have a tumblr? I bet you have a fedora somewhere, and one of those Native American headdresses. Which isn't cool, by the way. Way to reappropriate another culture's tradition for fashion, you big xenophobe. Oh my god, this is the best thing ever."

"What are you talking about?"

"What I'm trying to—okay. What I'm trying to say is, you're not an easy guy to love. You're kind of impossible, okay, I should hate you. I'm pretty sure I do hate you, actually."

Derek stiffens, keeps his eyes on the ground. "Good to know." His wolf rolls over, plays dead.

"But I also kind of love you." Stiles grabs Derek's fists, wraps them with both his hands. "If you say _You're seventeen_ one more time—"

"You're—" Derek starts. Stiles groans.

"...I-I was sixteen, okay?" Derek says, mutters, barely a whisper. "I was sixteen and I was _stupid_ and I thought…"

Stiles stares at him. "I'm not Kate Argent. _You're_ not Kate Argent. I'm not a stupid kid with a crush, and you're not gonna burn my house down." And then, backtracking, he adds, "And you weren't a stupid kid with a crush either. She was a psychopath, okay, they're wild-cards, you can't figure them out."

"Comforting," Derek snorts. Stiles rolls his eyes, sighs.

"Can you just try to accept that I think I might love you? Like actually, freakin' love you? I mean, I'm putting it all out there, and things are gonna get super freaking awkward if this is a one-way deal, but I'll handle it. A lot of mocking myself in my head, my self-esteem'll take a dive, but hey, at least I said it, so. Ball's in your park, dude."

"I—" Derek starts, falters. "I can't. You're—"

" _Holy god._ Yeah, I'm seventeen. Big whoop. I can't vote, I can't buy cigarettes, I can't drink. Well, I'm not _supposed_ to drink. And you know what? I don't give a fuck. I'm not gonna let some stupid rule decide what I can and can't do with my life. I'm not gonna drink all the freaking time, because I'm not an idiot, and my dad would kill me. And I'm not gonna touch you if you don't want me to, cuz I'm not Creepy McCreeperson." He releases Derek's fists—

_Derek doesn't moan, doesn't fall forward, suddenly powerless against the forces of gravity—_

Derek stays upright.

"But if the only reason you're holding back is me being born six months late, then I'll see you in six months. And you better not have a new stupid excuse."

"I—" All Derek wants is a way to say _Just take my hands, please, I don't ever want you to drop my hands again. Just take me, okay, just make me into whatever you want me to be. Just don't leave. Six months is six months too long, and I'll lose my mind waiting._

But Derek has never been an expert communicator. "I... okay."

Stiles gapes. "What?"

"Six months. Okay." Derek hates himself.

"You're serious. This is you saying you care about me, and you know I care about you—" Derek has never felt so sick, so light-headed, so out of control in his whole life. "—And you just need time. Six months."

"I—"

"This is Beacon Hills. I could be dead in six months. You could—" but he stops, because Derek is shaking again. "Whoa, wait, no, I didn't—I'm not gonna die. I'm not gonna die, man, I swear. Six months, okay. I can do that. I waited nine years, I can wait six months."

And they're back to Lydia again. Derek doesn't know what to say to that, so he just stands, and tries to stop shaking.

"So what's the protocol here? Do we just awkwardly avoid each other for half a year? Cuz last time I tried for less of you in my life, I ended up in like six different near-death situations with you. Or paralyzed and on top of you. Or you paralyzed and almost dying. There should be some kind of punch card. Three cases of spontaneous paralysis, you get a free six-inch sub. Six cases, you get tickets to a minor league baseball game. Nine, a flat screen TV. We're on our way, man." And his hand is on Derek's back, just for a second, a friendly slap. And then it's gone.

And screw this. Screw this.

"Stiles—"

"Okay. Okay. But I'm not gonna stop helping Scott if I can help. Or anyone. If I can help, I'm gonna freakin' help."

 _Of course,_ Derek thinks. _You're_ Stiles _. Stiles doesn't stay in the car. Stiles doesn't wait for backup. Stiles just_ dives _. Just runs into danger like dying isn't an option. Attacks everything headfirst, and doesn't back down, even when there's no chance in hell he'll make it out alive._

He _kissed_ him.

"So if the sadistic hand of fate or destiny or general bad luck decides to throw the two of us together, you're just gonna have to handle it."

"I—"

"And I'm gonna throw out that stupid cologne, okay? So that won't be an issue. And I'll try to avoid fire in general. You're reshaping my whole freaking life, man, do you get that? I mean, I can't say I'm gonna turn down a good barbeque, cuz that shit is delicious. And sometimes I'm gonna make a soup or something for my dad and I, and we've got one of those stove tops with the gas and the—The point is, I'm making an effort here. I'm putting out an olive branch the size of the freakin' tree, alright? So just—see that. Cuz that's for you, dude."

"I don't want—" Derek shakes his head. "You don't have to change anything. You should do what you want."

"This is what I want," Stiles says. "You. Me. You and me. Playing odd couple. Sucking face. Only if you're into it, obviously. I wanna see you actually freakin' smile, okay, that would make my life. Maybe laugh, even. I'm ambitious. We could be awesome, man. And I don't really see how six months is gonna make a difference, but hey. I'm adaptable. And I'm invested in getting this shit right."

"Lydia," Derek says. It's a question and a fact and an excuse all at once.

"Right. Okay. I'm not gonna pretend she isn't the coolest girl in the world. And yeah, I've been in love with her pretty much all my life. Probably always will be."

Derek's back to not saying anything, not even trying. His wolf wakes up and paws halfheartedly at his chest; his lungs tangle like a coil of wolfsbane growing around a corpse.

"But the fact is, I'm still here. I don't expect you to understand it. Fuck, _I_ don't understand it. But I'm here. I could be on a date with Lydia friggin' Martin right now, but I'm here with you, and I don't want to leave. So fine. You need six months. You don't have eyes for jail-bait. Which, fine, you've got some damage there, but that's not—it wouldn't be like that. Jesus, you're pretty much hotter than the heat of a thousand fiery suns, okay, there is no dubious consent going on. And age is but a number. I've been told I'm very mature for my—okay, obviously that's a lie, but I'm not just a kid. I'm not gonna grow six inches and forty pounds of muscle in six months, dude. What you see is kinda what you get here. But fine. If that's what it takes, I'll deal. I mean, I'm not gonna hold out forever. I have _needs_ , you know. I'm still a teenager. A horny, needy teenager. With like no impulse control. But six months. Okay."

Okay.

But it's not okay. Because Stiles is so, so close, and the chemicals are fading, and all Derek wants is to taste Stiles' wide grin and curl his fingers around his neck so his fingertips scrub Stiles' short hair and his thumb hovers close to that impossible steady pulse while it thumps out it's promise, it's even reassurance. All Derek wants is Stiles' breath in his lungs and the heat of his arms twisting around Derek's back. All he wants is to scent and mark and claim as his own. To stop running and breathe, and breathe, and breathe, and to have someone—to have _Stiles_ —beside him when he needs to start running again.

But Derek nods. He doesn't say any of that, and he nods.

And Stiles says, "Okay."

And he wraps his arms around Derek and claps him on the shoulder.

And then he's gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my ff.net account. I'm on tumblr as highwaytohoech. I'd love to know what you think :)


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